


Home isn’t Four Walls (It’s Two Eyes and a Heartbeat)

by palaces_out_of_paragraphs



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pining, these two are the sweetest best friends and the softest soulmates, westallen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palaces_out_of_paragraphs/pseuds/palaces_out_of_paragraphs
Summary: Her best friend in the universe has been asleep for nine whole months, but now he’s awake and here beside her, so now she stares at the length of his lashes and the curve of his lips and the watercolor flecks of green and blue that make up his eyes, and at the pale freckles that are scattered like stars across his face and down his neck and chest, like a constellation stretched out over his collarbones.Or: Iris West watched her best friend die. It’s not something she can ever unsee. And now that he’s awake it’s leading to some surprising (or maybe not so surprising) realizations. A slight Season 1 AU.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen/Iris West
Comments: 28
Kudos: 904





	Home isn’t Four Walls (It’s Two Eyes and a Heartbeat)

Here is the best thing Iris West learns about Barry Allen:

He’s her home.

And it’s also the worst thing she learns about him.

It’s the worst thing, because she never knew before that she could watch him be ripped away from her one night in a single lightning strike. She never knew that the two eyes and heartbeat that made up her home could be in a coma, mind somewhere just out of her reach. 

But now she’s all too aware of that fact as she sits in Star Labs, gripping his hands, just like she has for two-hundred-and-seventy-three nights in a row. And Iris West is a strategist with a sharp mind, a leader with a steel resolve, a journalist who never encountered a writing problem she couldn’t solve, but there’s not a single thing in the world she can do to get her best friend back. 

So instead, she spends part of every day by his side, watching and waiting and hoping and begging as if her sheer want of him could have the power to wake him up.

“Come home to me,” she whispers.

(And she doesn’t know it yet, but somehow, he hears her.

Barry _always_ hears her.)

❦

Her world stops when Barry walks back into the coffee shop. It’s like he’s the single focus of a photograph, beautiful and clear, while everything else is blurred.

And all she can think is: He’s awake.

He’s awake. He’s awake. _He’s awake._

The words keep repeating themselves on loop in her mind, keeping in time to the beat of her heart as she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around their rightful place ‘round his shoulders. And it feels so good to hear her name on his lips again, to have the feel of his hands on her again, holding her close. 

“Barry, I watched you die,” Iris whispers, her voice breaking on his name, and she tries not to cry as she looks into his eyes. “Your heart kept stopping.”

And there’s something achingly gentle in his eyes as he stares back at her, and then he takes her hand and brings it up, pressing her palm against his chest, his hand still over hers, and Iris can feel the warmth of his skin seep through the soft cotton of his shirt and the thudding melody of his heartbeat beneath the curve of her hand.

“It’s still beating,” he says.

And she smiles as if it’s beating for her.

❦

They’re Barry and Iris; they’re like two halves of a whole that were born to fit together, and Iris knows their easy rhythm like it’s muscle memory. In some ways, it’s like nothing’s changed.

But in others, it’s like everything has.

Because, once upon a time, she didn’t really know what life was like without Barry Allen in it, and now she _does._

(Life without him is awful. So, so awful. She’s used to hearing the sound of his voice like she’s used to breathing, and those weeks without it were like a world that was both silent and screaming. It was waking up every day and suddenly finding something _missing_. Like a huge chunk of her world had just vanished. She never wants to go through that again.)

But now Barry’s back, and now Iris sits across from him in a checkered diner booth, watching with a raised eyebrow as he arranges a burger _and_ a large fries _and_ mozzarella sticks _and_ a shake on the table in front of him. All of which he seems intent on eating himself, because he shoots Iris a somewhat petulant look when she reaches over to steal some of his fries.

Not that he tells her no. He never tells her no. She can’t remember a single time he’s ever denied her anything, actually, and Iris would be lying if she said there wasn’t the tiniest part of her that stole his fries just to see that look on his face. The look that says he wants to be mad, but isn’t, because there’s softness in his smile and something like fondness in his eyes. 

Except it isn’t fondness. It’s something that completely eclipses it, surpasses it. Something Iris can’t quite put her finger on.

(She’s lying to herself, though. Deep down, she knows exactly what it is.

She has the exact same look in her own eyes.)

“So,” she says, “any weekend plans? Some lucky girl snatch you up for a Saturday night date yet?”

He breathes out a laugh, dips his head, scratches the back of his neck self-consciously, and it’s stupid, so, so ridiculously stupid, but just the sight of his nervous ticks make Iris’ heart stutter just for a second because she wasn’t sure she’d ever, _ever_ get to see him be awake to do that again. 

(Her best friend in the entire universe has been asleep for nine whole months, so if Iris stares at him a little longer, looks a little closer at the color of his eyes, feels her heart beat a little faster when she does, then who could really blame her?)

“I was going to binge watch _The Ether_ , actually,” he says, in-between wolfing down bites of his burger. “The season premiere’s coming up and I don’t even know what happened in last season’s finale.“

Fresh out of a coma and he wants to spend his weekend catching up on his favorite sci-fi show. Iris shakes her head, smiling to herself. _Nerd._

(She’s missed him. _She’s missed him so much_.)

“Right,” she says, reaching over to snatch a mozzarella stick and ignoring the quiet whine he gives her. “You’ve got a lot to catch up on. At least you won’t have to wait long to see what happens with that whole cliffhanger thing.”

Barry stares at her, blinks his sea colored eyes in surprise, and Iris pretends she isn’t watching the soft curve of his lips as they part slightly in question. 

“You watched my show?” he asks, brow furrowed. “While I was - “

Iris nods, cuts him off, doesn't want to hear him say the word _coma_ aloud.

(That type of show had never been her thing, but Barry loved it, talked about it all the time. After the accident, on that first Friday night at eight she knew Barry should be watching the show but wasn’t, she found herself turning on the tv, like watching it was a way she could somehow be close to him.

“I don’t know why you even like this show, Barry,” she’d said, that first time she turned it on, crinkling her nose at the flickering screen. She hated how the plot lines made no sense and hated how bad the cgi looked and hated how the writers never let the two leads who were clearly in love with each other ever get to be together.

But most of all, she hated how Barry wasn’t there to respond to her teasing criticism.)

“Yeah,” Iris finally replies, pulling herself out of her memories. Barry was _here_. Barry was awake. She wasn’t going to think about that nine month void where he wasn’t. “Never missed an episode, so now I can confirm my suspicion that it truly is an awful show, Bear.”

Barry laughs at that, shoots her a smile that’s big and bright, brilliant as a lightning bolt, and it nearly knocks the breath out of her. Iris wishes she could record the sound of his laughter, like it’s some sort of melody that might run out. She wants to capture this moment, needs to study him like he’s a Monet in a museum, because she never did before, and life is fragile and precious and time runs out like ever-shifting sand in an hourglass and he’s awake and he’s here _and she almost lost him._

But she doesn’t quite say all that.

“I missed you,” she says instead.

“I missed you too,” he replies, reaching across the table and taking her hand, brushing his thumb over hers.

Iris laughs, rolls her eyes, “You weren’t even _conscious_ to, Bear.” 

“Still missed you,” he insists. 

(And Iris thinks he’s telling the truth.)

❦

Iris has that dream again, the one where Barry’s by her side with his head thrown back in laugh, but just when she reaches out for him, he slips through her fingers, disappearing in a flash of light like a lightning strike, and she’s left grasping at smoke and air.

(Iris has had that same dream off and on for nine months. She’d wake up alone in the dark and have to remember the devastating news that Barry wasn’t okay _all over again_.)

And now it’s been a full week since Barry’s been awake and the nightmares and feelings still haven’t gone away. They haven’t at all, and Iris just _has_ to see him, has to actually see him awake and breathing and talking. Has to know this isn’t a dream, that this is _real._

So before she really even knows what she’s doing, Iris is pulling on her clothes and grabbing her keys and walking out the door.

❦

It’s one o’clock in the morning, and Iris is standing in the hall outside Barry’s apartment.

(This is probably crossing boundaries, she thinks, if such a thing still existed between them. But really, all the lines have blurred and bled together and it’s both a comforting and terrifying thought to think that their entire lives are so entwined with each other’s, that she’s not sure where one ends and the other begins.)

But Iris isn’t used to this, this feeling of almost helplessness. She’s the one with the iron will and steel resolve, the one who’d shamelessly and ferociously beat up any childhood bully who’d dare hurt her best friend, the girl who once, when she was very young, threaded her fingers through a young Barry’s hair as he lay his head on her lap and sobbed. So when she hears footsteps walking toward the door she thinks that maybe this is stupid. That maybe she should just go, turn and run down the flight of stairs before he sees her.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays where she is and watches as the silver doorknob turns, the door swings open, and Barry Allen appears in front of her, the flickering, gold glow of the television in his living room lighting up his silhouette.

He looks disheveled, with wrinkled clothes and locks of soft brown hair both sticking up straight and falling across his forehead. He’d probably fallen asleep in front of the tv, Iris realizes, and she’d woken him up.

But still, he smiles when his sleep-filled eyes land on her form, and it’s like it’s not even a conscious choice, like he’s not even fully awake, like it’s just an instinctive, automatic response for him to smile at the sight of her, and there's something about the action that makes Iris’ breath catch in her chest.

Barry blinks the sleep from his eyes, then frowns, like he’s just now realizing there’s something off about her appearing in his doorway after midnight. “Iris?”

“Hey, Bear,” she replies.

Worry grows in his eyes, “Is something wrong?”

(Yes. Everything’s wrong. She watched him die. Stood there and saw his heart stop over and over and over and it’s not something she can forget. Not even now that he’s fine.)

“Just wanted to see you,” she says, because it sounds better than _What? Can’t someone show up at their best friend’s apartment at one in the morning looking wild-eyed without having their motives questioned? Jeez, Barry. Lay off._

Her answer is short, flimsy, not even a real answer, really, but Barry accepts it anyway, opening the door wider and inviting her in. He leads her to his living room, motions to the couch, mumbles an apology as he looks around a bit self-consciously at the cockeyed cushions and the stray popcorn kernels that are dotted on it, but Iris doesn’t care. How could she care about any of that? The fact remains that Iris West watched her best friend die.

It’s not something she can ever unsee.

And now that she has him back, she finds herself not wanting to take her eyes off of him, like maybe if she looks at him long enough, studies him hard enough, she can carve him perfectly into her memory.

And so she stares at the length of his lashes and the curve of his lips and the watercolor flecks of green and blue that make up his eyes, and at the pale freckles that are scattered like stars across his face and down his neck and chest, like a constellation stretched out over his collarbones. 

And Iris West has never liked to think of herself as _sappy_. She’s a journalist who turns in her work with hard facts and persuasive turns of phrase. There’s no room for poetic nonsense in her mind or in the things she writes.

And, yet, as she stares at him awake and alive and by her side she can’t help but think that he’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

“Iris,” Barry whispers, studying her face as she studies his. “What’s going on?”

“Just wanted to see you,” she repeats, still refusing to mention her dreams. “Just checking to make sure you’re okay.”

Barry stares at her a minute, before he wraps his hand around hers, gently guides it to his chest once again, lets her press the pads of her fingers to the space beneath his breastbone to feel the cadence of his heartbeat.

“Still beating,” he reminds her.

“Still beating,” she repeats.

And then because Barry knows her, because he’s _always_ known her and nothing stays secret between them for long, he admits, “Sometimes I dream about it too.”

Iris’ eyes flicker up to his, “ _Bear.”_

“Sometimes I dream that I’m struggling to move but I’m frozen still,” he tells her, his voice quiet. “Sometimes I dream that I’m trying to wake up but everything’s black and I can’t.”

She hates this. Hates that he’s going through this. Hates that she can’t protect him. Because she’s Iris West and he’s Barry Allen, and there really isn’t anything she wouldn’t do to save him. 

“But you wake up,” she reminds him, and then her brow furrows. “How _do_ you wake up?”

“There’s a voice,” he says as he looks at her. “There’s always a voice in them, calling me home.”

“Who’s the voice belong to?”

He stares at her for a second, as if it’s obvious, as if the answer’s as clear as air and loud as thunder. And he tells her:

“ _You._ The voice is _yours_ , Iris. You’re always the one bringing me back.”

And then it hits her, like a sudden tidal wave or burst of rain, or like the first soaring notes of a symphony:

She’s in love with him.

Head-over-heels, stupidly, completely, ridiculously in love with Barry Allen.

She loves him so much it hurts. Loves him so much it feels like she might burst. And the revelation should feel shocking to her, she thinks, but it isn’t, not completely, not really. Their story’s always been a love story, she realizes, right from the very first chapter. This love she has for him has been burning for so bright and for so long, before she could even put words to what she was feeling, because now she understands that she’s loved him for as far back as she can remember, and she thinks that she can just go right on loving him forever.

And he loves her back, Iris can see it, _feel_ it, in the softness of his smile and the pure adoration in his voice, and the way he’s currently staring at her like she’s the best thing on this Earth, like she could call to him from anywhere at all and he’d hear her and come running back. 

And so Iris does the only thing she can think to do: she bunches his shirt beneath her fingers, leans forward, and kisses him. 

She feels him go still, feels him gasp against her mouth in surprise, but then his lips are moving over hers and he’s kissing her back, softly, slowly, like _he’s_ the one trying to memorize the moment now, memorize the feel of her against him, and he makes Iris feel breathless, think that he’s kissing her senseless. She can feel the thousand years of yearning in this kiss, feel the sheer amount of love and longing and the deep _ache_ of wanting and the feeling that they’ve been falling for each other for so long and so hard.

(Barry told her about the multiverse theory, once upon a time. And Iris hadn’t really been listening, but she can’t help but think that maybe in every universe this is inevitable, that _they’re_ inevitable, that he’s always been meant to be hers, that she was always meant to fall into his arms.)

And as she feels Barry smile against her lips, Iris remembers the best thing she’s learned about him:

He’s her home.

And she is his. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first westallen fic, so if you liked it, I’d really appreciate kudos or a comment! :) And if you hated it, then we can all just pretend my experiment in westallen fic writing never happened, mmkay?
> 
> I’m still new to The Flash/westallen fandom but I’ve already decided they’re the softest otp and made a Twitter {@irisbestallen}, and a Tumblr {iris-west-allens} just so I could post cute gifs of them. Because I’m all lowkey about my hyperfixations like that.


End file.
